Emperor Geta - Blog Posts

I couldn't have said it better 👏

i just love this scene. the way geta is taken aback by the poetry. he's guarded, wary, trying to unpack the underlying threat - a wild animal faced with a machine for the first time. he knows there's something dangerous here, but he can't determine the extent of it.

caracalla, as he is one to do, breaks the tension. he doesn't sense the threat, not like geta does. caracalla is happy with the turn of events, so geta backs down accordingly - but not without a little threat of his own, just so lucius knows that geta isn't oblivious to the harm.

it's the same way acacius threatens geta w/ the consequences of more war. geta's gaze shifts to the side. he knows acacius is right. but caracalla chimes in, giddy about bloodshed, and so geta doesn't pursue the potential threat. he allows it to slide.

geta is the sharper twin. he can smell blood in the water. but he doesn't follow up on his suspicions, especially not when caracalla delights in the source of the threat.

caracalla was always geta's greatest liability and weakness. love killed him in the end.

OH MY GOOODDDDDDDSSSS

The gods have SPOKEN

check out what my wife wrote 👀

"noooo it's just a silly pic!!!" nah, there's obviously a deep meaning here.

C:

Because they're all freaks! Hope this helps

tell me why i'm starting to obsess over Lucius Verus after the evil twins?

(still obsessing over the twins tbh)

Acclamation Day

Aka: Caracalla's stream of consciousness during the biggest moment of his life.

They're waiting for him. It's his big day after all, his acclamation.

Everything is going perfectly, but why shouldn't it? Beautiful purple and gold robes have replaced his old blue and gold ones and the fabric is soft and light on his skin. He looks down at himself. Yes, this is nice, his old ones had been stained anyway.

Geta never let him wear purple even though they're emperors and emperors wear purple, he knows that and he knows Geta knows that too but he had never been allowed- why though? It's silly, he should be able to wear purple because he is an emperor and thats what emperors wear, but he's in purple now so everything is okay. Except Geta still isn't here and he isn't sure why. Where is he? Perhaps already in his seat.

He spots Macrinus. Behind him, a bit further away is Lucilla. Lucilla didn't want to be his Mummy so now she had to pay. But... he isn't sure if he still wants her to pay, anymore. She could still be his Mummy, he could give her another chance. The General hasn't been around for a while, so maybe with him gone, Lucilla would change her mind.

"Must we kill Lucilla?" He whispers to Macrinus.

Macrinus is tall. He leans in, on his tip toes. Macrinus is nice, he told them about the plans the General and Lucilla had made. Geta said that they could trust Macrinus, so he does.

"Until she is dead, you will never know peace" Macrinus whispers back.

He nods. His head hurts a bit, and he moves on slowly, heading up the stairs. It's hot in the colosseum, and his nice new purple robes are beginning to stick to him.

Two big chairs. One for him and one for Geta. Geta isn't sitting here like he thought he would be. So where is Geta? Geta never leaves him, at least not for long. It's been a little while but they were just talking, they had been arguing actually-

Well, if Geta isn't here, he might as well take Geta's seat and let Dondus have his old one. That is nice of him, he thinks. He's a good emperor.

He smiles. The games begin and he can't stop himself, he loves this. He loves the colosseum, he loves the games, he loves watching the gladiators and wild animals. Sometimes it's hard for him to follow, it's hard for him to track which is the animal and which is the human but its all the same isn't it? It's all the same and its fun. He and Geta have been coming to the colosseum since they were boys- where is Geta, again? He should be here-

He looks throughout the box. There's Macrinus, behind him, like usual. Macrinus is watching the games closely so he turns back around and focuses too. A good emperor must always lead by example.

And there's Lucilla! She looks beautiful, even from a distance. He remembers what Macrinus had whispered to him. Peace. He likes the fighting and the bloodshed and watching the gladiators fly through the air but he knows peace is good, people like peace. His fingers fiddle with the gold thread on his robes.

A yell from below catches his attention. The Praetorians are doing a good job, he thinks, squinting at the action. A laugh slips out and his tongue finds his gold tooth. Where in the world is Geta? He's missing it, he's missing everything, he's missing the big day-

There's that gladiator poet Geta hates! Geta is going to be so angry when he finds out he missed this-

The men are scrambling below, yelling and shouting, crying out and it's so close to him- he scoots forward, trying to see everything. When they were children, he and Geta used to practice with wooden swords, yelling and rolling in the courtyards, just like this. They are emperors now and Geta says it's unbecoming to play fight again like they used to, but it would be fun, he thinks. It's hot and he's sweating a bit but that's okay- a little sweat never hurt a warrior-

"This is war! Real war!" He cries out, unable to contain it.

Does anyone hear him? It's loud, almost too loud, and his head throbs once more. The crowd is yelling, he watches them all, the plebeians, his plebeians, his people. He shifts back in his seat.

Where is Lucilla's General? He'd like this, he'd like the action, perhaps he could even ask the General to show him some things- Geta's cape! He has Geta's cape and he has laurels to match, he could-

Copper red rivers squirm through the sand below. But it's not the salty, fishy smell of water he's used to when he goes to the coast. It's metallic and cold, wafting up with the dust and nestling in his senses like it lives there.

He leans back in his seat. It's hot, he's too hot, his nice purple robes are sticking to him and he doesn't like them anyway, he decides that suddenly, he wants to be back in his old ones, even if they're stained, even if it's Geta's blood on them because that's what it was, that smell, that red splash across the sand that was the same blood spray that had covered him. He's sitting in Geta's chair and Geta isn't here and it's not good, nothing is good anymore, this is not how his day is supposed to go- Geta is supposed to be here but he's not and he's sitting in Geta's chair and its his own fault-

Warmth spreads from his shoulder down. Someone is touching him, Geta, he is praying. A cold brush against his ear lobe, is his earring falling? And then-

Pretty boy crying in his expensive silk curtains.

I want him to cry in my arms while I tell him everything is going to be okay :(

brotherly love

caracalla and geta are for the bitches who wanted to fuck the riddler instead of batman

there was indeed a third time

dick so good i had to go a second time

entered the theater not knowing anything and left blushing with butterflies

a days worth

synopsis: a slice of life with geta and his child. (2k)

pairings: emperor geta and his child: emperor caracalla and his niece

contents: animal fighting, gladiatorial fights, blood and gore, mentions of nightmares, author doing her best for historical accuracy, geta being a girl dad! a/n: part two!! this poor girl is still unnamed, but it's alright! she's doing her best. a venatio is an animal fight where a wild animal faces off with people within the colosseum!

divider by @saradika

masterlist!!

when geta is awoken, it's with a warm cheek pressed into his side.

the windows are opened, and the sun lightens the entirety of the room. the room is comfortably warmed by the sun, nearly lulling geta back to slumber.

his child is curled around a pillow, seemingly sideways with her breath fanning out into the air as she lies on his chest, wrapped in linens. it seemed that she had stolen his linens in the night, as she was nearly buried in them.

his child looks endlessly peaceful in her sleep, content in somnus' realm. geta knows he should get up, summon the servants, and tuck her back underneath the linens, only able to see her in passing until the games later that day.

instead, he plays with a string of curly hair that peeks out of the blanket, listening to the sound of his child's breathing as they bask in the sun, their responsibilities lingering outside of his door.

-

the streets were bursting with chatter and festivity as seemingly every roman citizen clambered their way to the colosseum, rowdy with the promise of bloodshed.

his people feasted on war and bloodshed, even if they did not wish to admit it. geta felt the heat of rome on his skin, the warmth radiating from the sun as he stood behind the curtains leading to the emperor’s box, ignoring the way his brother shifted anxiously, consistently paranoid about the threat of assassination. 

he could hear the roar of his people from behind the curtains, the excitement brimming in the bones of thousands, ready to animalistically tear apart the gladiators below. 

this was not war by any means, but it would keep his empire calm for the day.

behind the curtain, he can hear his mother conversing with a general as everyone waits for them to step out from behind the curtain, to allow the games to commence.

however, it's with a nudge to his forearm that he looks back, grinning at the sight of his daughter, dressed similarly to both him and his mother, donning a smaller version of a laurel wreath upon her head.

"my child," his voice seemed to boom within the room as his brother also turned to grin at the child, who grins back. his hand finds the warmed cheek of his daughter, stretched in a grin that bears her teeth.

much like him, she dons a wide expanse of jewelry, wearing an identical blue ring on her left hand. as the sun peaks through the curtains, his child seems to radiate as the gold grows brighter underneath the sun.

"father? are you well?", geta had to strain his ears to hear the question, despite the fact his child wasn't too far away, pressed against his arm, seeking comfort before the games. her eyes seemed to grow impossibly wider as the question went unanswered.

after a minute of looking at his child, geta nods and turns around before he drops his hand, his child's nose still pressed to the back of his forearm as she stands behind, yet between them. he faintly thinks of how much his citizens will talk about this.

it seemed that the sight of his daughter soothed the unrest of the citizens. when the whispers of their vanity and cruelty ran rampant through the streets, geta was always careful to bring his daughter out.

while well-loved by the citizens, geta knew his child was often a cruel topic between senators and generals alike. it seemed to upset the men within the box, that his child held a considerable amount of power in the eyes of roman citizens.

geta had killed men and women alike the minute he caught wind of any ill-intent towards his child, the senators and generals that sat within the box were no different.

for a moment, he debates sending his child back to her servants, to keep her safe from the looming threat of being in front of rome's people. but as a servant pulls the curtains back, and the noise of the colosseum swallows them, he knows it's too late.

-

excitement seemed to fill the colosseum as geta watched from his chair next to caracalla, bathing in the bloodshed below. his child was on her knees in front of them, head peeking over the edge of the box. her cheers seem to blend in with every other cheer.

he can barely hear anything past the yelling and cheers of the citizens below, and the roaring noises erupting from the rhinoceros within the stage. the ventaio had only just begun, and the rhinoceros had already gained the upper hand.

his child turns to laugh as caracalla begins wildly giggling next to him as the rhinoceros roars and rushes toward the man on the stage.

unfortunately, the man is not quick enough, and the rhinoceros is quick to charge at the man with its horn. caracalla is giggling next to him, feeding into the crowd’s excitement as the rhinoceros tramples the man to death.

entrails hang from the greyed horn, swaying in the wind and sending blood splattering onto the walls. the animal continues its tirade against the smashed corpse of the man until no identifiable limb is left in sight, a mush of blood and body on the ground. 

grinning, he waves a hand, joining his family in laughter as the rhinoceros is led out of the ring, and a new pair of gladiators enter the ring.

-

geta can tell the exact moment his child grows tired.

her body seems to slump against the edge of the box, and her hands cushion her chin as she watches the fight below. both men were fairly new to the gladiatorial games and seemed unsure of what to do as the crowd screamed at them.

he allows his attention to drift for the slightest of moments, stretching out a veiny hand to pull his child closer. she seems to feel the grab coming as she leans back and his hand wraps around her shoulder.

she stands on shaky legs before joining him on the chair, slightly leaning against the arm of the chair. his attention swiftly returns to the fight as his child settles in next to him, leaning against a pillar behind her head.

he allows himself to get lost in the craze of bloodshed once more, grinning and cackling as the gladiators finally turn against one another instead of trying to rebel.

a sick glee fills his chest as the men dance, swords flying through the air and blood splattering.

-

geta splits away from his child once more when they return to palatine. she’s still dozed from her nap, blinking away fatigue as she waves goodbye from behind a servant’s hip.

he’s immediately swept away with caracalla, whispers of an invasion against a neighboring village filling the air.

general acasius is by their side, harshly drilling into the other generals as maps are sprawled across tables and opinions are thrown back and forth.

-

it’s deep into the night when the battle plans are finalized, and geta is left with his brother. caracalla’s eyes are deceivingly bright, still energized despite the day’s events.

for a minute, they sit in silence, engulfed in the warmth of the torches of the study, sitting as brothers instead of emperors.

caracalla is the first one to break, muffling a yawn as he stands from his chair, rushing off into the halls. no words are exchanged by them, just a slight nod, and caracalla is gone into the night.

a headache pummels itself against his head, irritated by the constant bickering of their generals. he's thankful for the silence of the study as he bathes in the warmth of the torches, and the stillness of palatine.

a stillness that is promptly interrupted by the door creaking open, and soft sniffling that has his head swinging back. his sweet daughter stands in the doorway, peering over at him from behind a servant's back.

with a crook of his fingers, his daughter is shuffling his way, and the servant is leaving, gently shutting the door behind them. she stands in front of him for a minute before sniffling again, wrapping herself tighter in the linens she brought with her. the flickering torchlight cast shadows across her pale face, revealing the telltale flush of sleep on her cheeks. he could see the way her eyes glistened, heavy-lidded with fatigue.

“father?” her voice was barely a whisper, tinged with a raspy-ness that sent worry down his spine. she inched closer, the linens draping around her like a shroud.

“what is it, my dove?” geta asked, forcing himself to remain gentle, as his child always startled easily when drowsy. he gestured for her to come closer to him, and gently tugged her onto his lap, cradling her body against his chest. she fit so perfectly against him, as if she belonged there, and he wished he could shelter her from the world forever.

“i had a bad dream,” she murmured, her forehead resting against his chest. “there was a rhinoceros in our chambers, and it ate you!" he stroked her hair, muffling a chuckle into her ruffled hair.

"i'm right here, my dove. there are no rhinoceros' within our home, if there were, i'd have their horns." the thought of rhinoceros' within palatine was laughable, the vile, bloodied beasts just walking the halls was a sight they would never see.

alas, venatioes always gave his child nightmares, the beasts that fought for their lives always ended up in her dreams, always inflicting pain on a member of their family. it would send his child rolling into his arms, awaking in a pitiful fit of cries.

"but i don't feel good, can i stay here with you, father?" her voice quivered, pushing her head underneath his chin.

geta sighed, as much as he would love to stay in the study, basking in the warmth, the study was far too vulnerable, and he could lose her easily to fate’s cruel hand.

“then you should be in bed, resting. this study holds too many dangers, our bed is far safer." she looked up at him, big eyes shimmering with unshed tears. “but father, i want to stay here, it’s much warmer.”

irritation sparked in his chest. his child rarely went against him, but the few times she did, it enraged him. she knew he did everything in her favor, did everything he could to keep her safe from the cruelties of rome.

despite this, his child held an affection for rebelling against his wishes. geta could count the amount of times she had directly gone against him on one hand, but the few times she had, it hadn't ended prettily. his daughter’s vulnerability, whilst heartwarming, ignited a flame of craze within him. losing her to sickness, injury or her own naivety was a fate he refused to entertain.

“alright, my dove,” he sighed, his voice low and smooth. “we will go to our chambers. let’s get you in bed, away from those dreams of rhinoceros.” he anchored himself, shifting to rise, and pulled her onto his hip effortlessly, her weight a welcomed comfort against him.

she nestled against him, her small form bundled in linens that felt chilled from her descent down to his study. his grip tightened instinctively around her, as if holding her too loosely could expose her to the dangers lurking within the halls of palatine. as he stepped into the dimly lit halls, shadows danced in the flickering torchlight, and his mind raced through the myriad of potential threats: the whispering intrigues of too many ambitious men, a rebellion, or perhaps, in his daughter's mind, a rhinoceros.

-

once again, geta awakes with a cheek pressed to his side. this time, his daughter is curled up against his side, hidden underneath their shared linens.

it is dark in their room, the rain pattering down the sides of palatine as a storm washes over rome. with one lasting look to the darkness outside of their chambers, geta turns to his side, and pulls his child a little closer.

they have a few more hours, so for now, geta will rest.

a father’s love

synopsis: a character study of emperor geta and his dearest daughter (1.6k)

pairings: emperor geta & his daughter: julia domna & her granddaughter

contents: attempted infanticide, unhealthy relationships, mentions of violence, geta is doing his best to be a father! the daughter is never explicitly named in this work, but im sure in future works she'll be named! a/n: also, I'm slightly tweaking the years of geta and caracalla's rule, but that doesn't matter much other than they're ruling much longer than they realistically did. ientaculum is a form of breakfast!! it's a meal romans used to eat right after they woke up! it's nothing lavish! (also peep the marie antoinette movie reference)

divider by: @saradika !!

masterlist!!

ten years prior

the woman tries to hush the small baby, ignoring how soft hands putter against her arm in a pitiful attempt to escape. 

her baby is no older than three weeks, yet the woman has already let her live too long. there is no telling what the emperors would do if they learned of her child.

she had let the baby live out of pure selfishness, knowing her freedom from the emperors was only temporary until the conflict with a neighboring country ended.

she had selfishly ridden out her pregnancy, fooling herself into the belief that the emperor would cherish this child, and then it ended up being a little girl.

then she knew the child was doomed to death if she was caught.

so, with a gentle kiss goodbye, the woman wraps an old robe around the baby’s face, crying as she wails and twists underneath the material, trying to evade death.

-

the doors to the concubine quarters are slammed open, splintering off the wall as guards rush in, spears and swords brandished into the dark room. the woman splutters with shock as she pushes down harder on the wailing child, trying to fight the stronger hands pulling her back. 

she only surrenders when the tip of a sword meets her exposed neck, a slight gush of blood welling up to the cut, and a guard unwraps the baby’s face, the reddish skin slightly cooling as the night wind blows in through the windows. 

for a minute, she prays that the gods take mercy on her child and that the guards are only here to finish what she had started. but when the familiar smell of cinnamon and opobalsam fills the air, she knows her prayers weren’t answered. 

from the corner of her eye, a pale hand wraps around her baby, engulfing her child in a blur of golden rings and pale skin.

she knows that her prayers weren’t answered when imperator geta leans down to study her baby, lips twisted into a cruel scowl. 

she knows her prayers weren’t answered when imperator geta leaves with her baby, and a sword is plunged into her neck. 

-

rome, 211 ad

the moon seemed to cast a shadow on the entirety of palatine hill. there was little sound, besides the gentle whispering of the wind ruffling leaves and grasses, accompanied by the occasional animal noise.

if one strained their ears, they would hear the gentle pitter-patter of bare feet on the floors, accompanied by the minuscule shushing of julia domna.

the former empress leads the redheaded child through the halls of palatine hill, ignoring the multiple guards bowing their heads in respect as they whisk through the halls.

before they reach the main atrium, julia soothes down a curl on the girl's head before she lifts her veil, "neptis, this is where we part".

the child's lips quirk down into a frown before she smiles once more, the promise of being with her father soon. after their nighttime walks through the halls of palatine, julia always stopped before entering geta's section of palatine. she wasn't sure if it was out of respect or out of fear of her son.

at times, she wished she was like her granddaughter, fearless and full of love for the emperors. whilst the child was always stuck firmly on her father's side, she had indulged in caracalla's occasional affection for his niece.

on the occasion, when geta allows the child to accompany them outside of palatine to the occasional gladiator fight, julia could pretend her children weren't at each other's throats for full control of rome, and that her family had more concerns than a throne.

but for now, julia is content with watching the child hurry off into the dimly lit hallways leading to her son's chambers, getting intercepted by one of his personal guards after a few seconds.

she will see the child tomorrow, hiding in her father's shadow as they loom over the citizens of rome.

-

geta stalks the halls, waiting for the familiar sound of his child's poorly hidden laughter. she adored circling the guard as they walked through the halls, easily entertained by the sway of the guard's cape.

with a loud laugh, his child rushes into his hallway, grinning back at the guard, illuminated by the dim torches. perhaps if his child paid more attention, she would've been alerted to his rapidly approaching figure, closing in on her. he watches as the guard backs away, disappearing into the shadows of the halls as he reaches his child.

striking like a snake, geta collects his child in his arms, laughing at the terror that paralyzes the smaller body, stiffening in shock. however, once gathered in her father’s arms, resting her cheek against exposed skin where his armor ends, the child soothes, growing boneless as she slumps against him.

for a minute, he indulges in her childishness before they walk once more, striding through the heavily guarded halls as they near their chambers. the child keeps her hand firmly clasped around the material of his cloak, rubbing it between her fingers.

the sound of his armor and her breathing seemed nonexistent as they walked together, her eyes drooping with fatigue as the halls stretched on.

selfishly, geta tugs her impossibly closer before picking her up, allowing her to curl up against the chilled gold of his armor, tugging his cloak to the side, covering her upper body as they walked.

it was moments like these when geta was content with having a daughter. a son would be the child of rome, the future imperator. a boy whose only purpose in life was to lead rome.

but a daughter? a daughter would be his.

alas, this child is his. while his citizens adored seeing his child and celebrated her birth with the same festivities, feasts, and ceremonies that he and caracalla had, there was nothing that could harm his child. her every move wasn't analyzed and scoured with harsh eyes, instead, she was celebrated as an offering of peace, a soothing balm to the tensions within his empire.

even though rome hadn't been born an heir, geta had been blessed by the gods with an endlessly smart child, sweet and unharmed by the lurking horrors that hid within their empire.

even if she wasn't a boy, geta selfishly loved his child. he should've sent her to the vestal virgins, she could've been loved and treasured by the priestesses and the vestals, learning the duties of a roman matron and being safe within holy walls.

but he couldn't seem to let her go far.

when she had first been born, geta had grown obsessive over finding her and her mother. he and caracalla had both banished their concubines and servants alike, paranoid about a potential traditor during their conflict with the neighboring countries.

caracalla had learned of her life first from a drunken concubine who had seen the child, who had been present for her birth. the concubine had seemingly talked for hours, continuing on and on with her story before the news had reached geta.

they had found her in his mother's old concubine quarters, being smothered to death by a robe.

he can still remember the wailing of her mother as his guards yanked the woman away, peeling the robe off his baby's reddened face. he was quick to move through the room, ignoring the woman who screamed and kicked at his guards, spluttering curses and begs alike.

he had leaned down to look at the pitiful child, breathing rapidly, but not a sound escaped her. she had laid there silently, helpless and struggling for breath as they looked at each other.

he remembered the burning heat of her skin as he collected her in his hands, wide eyes blinking up at him as her breathing eventually evened out, still silent as she slept against his chest. perhaps it was the trust that likened him to the child so much, a curious presence, uncaring about his brutality as she grew.

it was a weakness that could be easily exploited, a child too weak to overthrow a potential assailant, a child that would succumb to even the smallest ounce of poison slipped into her chalice. whilst caracalla was constantly paranoid over assassination attempts on his own life, geta worried for his child.

she brought nothing to his reign, no comfort in knowing he had a successor to carry on his legacy. she had no claim to the throne, but geta held claim over her, and she held a claim over him.

she was worryingly loyal, even as unrest between the emperors grew and roman citizens grew hostile. she was blissfully unaware of the unrest, of potential wars and conflicts burning their way closer to rome.

she held no expectations of him. there was no need to continue being an emperor once he was inside his side of palatine hill, hidden away from the eyes of his brother and guards alike. inside his chambers, all he needed to be was a father.

so, for now, geta will keep her locked away in palatine, and perhaps one day she will grow to hate it, to hate her father, and perhaps her loyalty will shift to caracalla.

perhaps she will stare out of the windows and down to the streets of rome, endlessly enviable to the children roaming the streets, and grow to hate the stiffness of palatine hill.

but for now, his child is content to curl up and sleep, uncaring of anything outside of her father and what cheese she will have for ientaculum tomorrow.

Little Drabble

A little Roman General Justus Acacius X Black/ Poc reader. A small dribble to just make something sweet for the time being.

His prize

General Acacius X Black/POC Reader

Hooves…All you heard when your husband was arriving home was hooves, as you were making your way to the entrance of your home with two handmaidens flanking you trying to help you cover up properly with a thicker robe, yet you didn’t have much care.

You were to see your husband, after many nights spent worrying about his safety, and praying to the gods for his safe return. You knew your husband wasn’t the most righteous man to others, but to you he was the stars that filled your devoid nights and the very embrace you’d wish for at that moment.

As your long curly and course/ loose and curly/ straight black locs trailed behind you to your mid-back, after falling from there silk covering as they fell against your silk night robes which were as white as pearls, as your beautiful melanin skin, which was almost like the color that made vases that told of the most beautiful stories and tales/ skin that held beauty as the brown tourmaline and as dark as the many shades of the Chocolate Tahitian pearls which were littered across your arms in bracelets.

The entrance opened as your husband still clothed in his ceremonial armor, came over to your, nearly running as you two embraced one another tightly, not many knew the gentler and more domesticated side of General Acacius, but you did.

You tilted your head up looking to see those tired yet loving dark brown eyes looking down at you, as you felt the warmth of his olive toned skin against yours, you both could let out a exhale of relief as your eyes closed no longer having to worry for the others safety, as the comfort of each other eased the worry’s off both your shoulders.

Your handmaidens gently laid the thicker robe across your back before leaving to their chambers, to leave you two. As he heard their footsteps go out of hearing range, he lowly whispered, “My Lady, Mea Vita, I can’t hold your body as close as I wish to, but I can carry your love closest with me…How I’ve longed to see you again.”. You let out a soft exhale as you reluctantly moved back some.

“As you carry my love with you, I carry and hold yours….I drew you a bath, relax yourself in it and then come back to me.” As you were about to take a step backwards against the marble, he gently tugged you back to him as you met his gaze. “Join me my lady..” He lowly spoke with a glint of pleading within his eyes as they softened, hoping you’d agree.

(Mea Vita translates to “My Life” in Latin)

Should I continue? Either with another character or just finish the chapter?

If you want a different character just comment.

Oh my, this is so beautifully written??

It's been a while since I read something on these two and I'm so glad the first fic after that time was this<33

You didn't disappoint, hope I'll read more angst like this from you<33

I very much recommend reading<33

and if you go, i want to go with you.

⋆ ౨ৎ˚ ⋆ ˚ synopsis: the sister of the empire has died, the emperors subsequently follow. (2.1k)

⋆ ౨ৎ˚ ⋆ ˚ contents: death, depictions of dead bodies and decay, mourning, buckle up for this, intrusive thoughts, angst, suicide, heart attacks and brain hemorrhaging

⋆ ౨ৎ˚ ⋆ ˚: caracalla x sister!reader x geta

⋆ ౨ৎ˚ ⋆ ˚ a/n: making my comeback with something sad!! let me know how you feel about this, as i’m slightly unsure of it! thank you all for being so patient with me, it truly means so so much to me!! a few people wanted angst, and i hope i delivered it properly!!

my masterlist!

the halls have begun to stench.

down the hall, next to geta’s chambers, the doors to their sister’s chambers are thrown open. through the doors, caracalla can see her body, cloaked by a white cloth. his hands wrap tighter around the flowers in his hands, thorns digging into his hands, yet the sting is dull. he hasn’t felt much since she died, flowing through his days as if he was stuck in a wine bottle, slushing around.

he can see geta’s hunched form, laying over their sister.

the moon illuminates the room, casting a light over the now abandoned room, dust covering the untouched surfaces. he can see the jutting of geta’s back through his night robes, the bumps of his spine protruding out as if he was the one dead. they’re the same robes that he had worn when they found their sister, curled into her bed, her soul ascended to the heavens.

it was no murder plot that took her life nor a fit of rage or a sudden spark of depression. no, it was her brain, physician after physician had been dragged into the room, crinkling their noses as they studied the deceased empress, gently pointing out the slight swelling of her head. they had murmured about blood pooling in her skull, leaking from a burst vessel.

even now, a week later, they cannot move her body.

there’s a pile of vomit next to her bed, rotting into the carpet, a sign of her struggle. next to it lies a pile of fabric she had been messing with, giggling about dresses and shawls. it pains him, to stare at the multitude of projects and hobbies littered around palatine, forever frozen in time. incomplete and forgotten. even now, in her bed, with the slight sheen of blistering and bloating, foam leaking from her nose as if she had a cold, caracalla cannot help but think she is beautiful.

he knows geta thinks the same.

even now, lingering at the door and trying to ignore the stench of his rotting sister, caracalla can see how geta holds her as if she’ll awake any minute now, clinging to her like a small child. his hair is matted from his refusal to bathe, darkened by grease as he curls into the side of the bed, refusing to leave. at night, when he sleeps in the room next to geta’s, desperate to be close to his siblings, caracalla will even hear him talking to her, crying pitifully.

but who is he to judge?

at night, caracalla curls deep into his bed, mourning the loss of his anaticula. the bed is no longer warmed by the sleeping body of his sister, seeking out comfort in the dead of night while geta works. no longer do the halls smell of berries and flowers, the curtains drawn tight as the smell of her body fills palatine. no longer does caracalla have support against geta, no one to run to when their brother gets mean. at night, he’ll cry into his bedsheets, trying to cling to the lingering scent of her perfumes.

the servants have left alongside their mother. all that is left is the two of them in their grief, guarded by the praetorian.

-

rome mourns the loss of their empress alongside the brothers.

a darkness spreads over rome, the streets no longer bustling with life and activity when the news breaks. the games are indefinitely paused, any celebrations or parties getting lost in the wave of grief.

banners are hung over every window, aristocrat or commoner in remembrance of the now late empress. a procession is led through town by the praetorian guard once her body is removed from palatine, getting taken through palatine. deification had started later, with an uncanny wax version of the empress being presented in the temple.

when they first see her, the brothers cannot look away.

not while an uncannily similar version of their sister rests upon a bed of ivory and gold, dressed in her finest robes, gold and jewels strewn over her body like garland. a laurel wreath is wrapped around the figure’s head, large and commanding of attention as people pour in to pay their respects. on the left side of her body, the senate sits, cloaked in black as they stare ahead while the brothers sit on the right, dressed in their mourning robes. their outfits are eerily similar to their war uniforms, cloaks dangling off their shoulders with gold plates pressing into their chests, yet instead of white, they’re dressed in black fabric.

on the final day of mourning, geta is the one to seal his sister away, pressing a gentle kiss to her forehead before the bier is whistled away.

-

they break tradition.

there is no cremation, no pyre that raises to the skies and carries the scent of death throughout rome. instead, their sister is embalmed and entombed within the pantheon. neither of them see her body before it’s put in it’s tomb, still intact. however, caracalla is cursed to see it while her tomb is getting shut, a glass pane spread over the top of her coffin, her face staring back at him before the door is slammed shut.

he pukes in the pantheon, nasty, gagging sobs leaving his mouth as the image of his sister’s embalmed body sinks into his eyelids.

that night, caracalla dreams of too dull eyes and pale skin.

-

geta becomes cruel once their sister is gone.

he’s a mean shell of a man, screaming and launching items at caracalla as if he were a stray dog, haunted by the ghost of his sister. at night, he sees her still, curled into her side of the bed, head swollen with blood leaking out of her lips. he cannot move once the phantom joins him, unable to move or talk. he stays awake until the day breaks, the illusion of his sister disappearing once the light begins to seep into his room.

everywhere he goes, he sees her. phantom laughs echoing through palatine, flickers of tan skin and curly hair running through the garden, whispered proclamations of love flowing through the library. catching glimpses of white dresses running around a corner, forever out of his reach.

her death keeps him awake, constantly aware.

paranoia seeps into his chest as he continues on his duties, waiting for someone to take advantage of his weakness, waiting for the inevitable knife to slice through his chest. he cannot look at caracalla, haunted by his eyes that shine the same way their sister’s did. he pushes for more military invasions, not wanting to spend anymore time with the mourning look in general acacius’ eyes when they meet, pushing back any attempts of consolidation. geta wishes for pain, for suffering.

he wishes for sleep.

one night, he lies next to his phantom sister, mind sluggish with exhaustion and grief. the room is swelteringly warm, silence pressing into his chest as he thinks back to the warm nights he’d spend with his sister, sitting out on the balconies and watching rome, unbothered by their duties outside of their relationship.

and he wants to do it again.

he wants to loosely braid his sisters hair as she looks at the stars, stumbling through the stories of her day as she basks in the warmth of rome’s nights. he wants to bury his head in the junction of her neck and shoulder, to feel the comforting scratch of her nails in his hair as he cries. he wants to hear uncontrollable laughter and the slight rasp of her breath as she sleeps.

-

he finds himself standing in front of her tomb.

the pantheon is empty, bare of it’s vestal virgins and priests, the moonlight seeping in through the windows, illuminating her tomb. his fingers dig into the stone as he pushes the door open, ignoring the loud creaking and dragging of the door.

his sister stares back at him.

if he didn’t know better, he’d assume she was stuck in her coffin, still breathing. heart still beating. she looks like nothing had ever happened, like she never rotted in palatine for days, organs and muscles deteriorating. as if her vessels had never exploded. as if geta didn’t spend weeks mourning over her dead body, feeling her skin grow cold and nasty as she blistered.

he knows he should turn back. that he should slam the door closed and return to the ghostly apparition waiting in his room. but he finds himself creeping closer to her coffin, stretching out a hand to lay against the glass panel, feeling the chill of her tomb creep into his body.

and then he cannot stop.

he’s slamming the coffin door open, the embalmed body of his sister falling into his arms as he sinks to the stone floor, holding her body close.

he cries like a baby into pale skin, tangling his hands in the familiar curls of his sister’s hair. he knows deep down, that it’s not truly her body, a mess of wax and embalmed organs lying in his grasp, the remnants of her hair blended in with hair that didn’t belong to her. he knows that it’s the body from her mourning, not the decomposing mess they had removed from palatine.

but he seeks out comfort from it nonetheless.

in the morning he will be found, clutching her close, wrists sluggishly bleeding as his body is removed from her tomb, freshly deceased. weeks later, he will be entombed in the same tomb, forever next to his sister.

-

caracalla is left by himself.

there is no one for him to lean on, no comfort to be found in the sprawling halls of palatine as he mourns the loss of his older brother and younger sister. the weight of rome rests upon his shoulders now, cruel and demanding as he plans for geta’s mourning, for his brother’s embalming.

enemies have begun to press into rome, hearing whispers of the back to back loss of the empire. riots break throughout the streets, the people angry with the lack of consideration, with the lack of support and leadership. but caracalla cannot bring himself to face the masses of people, selfishly wishing that he could still hide behind geta’s demanding attitude. to be safe behind his brother’s iron throne and his sister’s popularity with their people.

hallucinations haunt him at night, twisting his preexisting sickness into something crueler.

terror seeps into his bones at all hours of the day, his heart forever seized in terror as he waits for his inevitable return to his siblings. every creak and whisper of wind within palatine sends him into a fit of terror, hiding underneath geta’s bed like a small child, curled around the linens that used to comfort his brother.

it’s with one clamber of a sword that caracalla is sent over the edge.

his body grows heavy with something he cannot explain, head spinning wildly as he curls into the linens deeper, terror spreading through his chest. he can do nothing but grasp the linens tighter as his body grows heavy, the world spinning as the pain in his body grows deeper.

in the morning, the praetorian guard will find him seemingly asleep underneath geta’s bed. the physicians will whisper about a broken heart and stress as he’s carried off to the temple, body being placed upon the same bier that held his brother and sister. caracalla will join them in the tomb, placed on the other side of his sister.

maybe in another life, they are not emperors and empresses, instead they will be small children once more, unburdened by power. every life they will find each other once more, together even in death as they’re reunited again and again. in some lives, they will be siblings, in others they will be classmates or soldiers in a war. in some they will be born to royalty once more, facing the same tragic fate of sudden death. in every life, their sister dies first and they follow suit, forever chasing her through time.

-

Bro why do we not talk about this..

i have no reasonable explanation for this

Saw Gladiator II today,,, those weird ass ginger freaks have entranced me I fear

Raw. Till I’m screaming. Next question.

-PUNK’S JQ MASTERLIST-

🕷Super Freak Series🕷

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Summary: The one where you’re miserable and drinking on your own at a party. And you run into maybe the last person you’d have expected on the outskirts. 7.6k words.

🕸 Is It My Body (the 2nd) 🕸

Summary: The one where Eddie gives you a ride home after your friend ditched you at a terrible party. 6.9k words.

🕸 Power of Suggestion (the 3rd) 🕸

Summary: You see Eddie at school after he gave you a lift home the other night. There’s definitely something you need to resolve. It’s mind over matter and there’s something you’re both after. 5.3k words.

🕸 Head Over Heels (the 4th) 🕸

Summary: Eddie visits you at the record store where you work. You end up making out in the storage room. 7.6k words.

🕸 Was it Love or Nicotine? (The 5th) 🕸

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ʜᴀɴɢɪɴɢ ʙʏ ᴀ ᴛʜʀᴇᴀᴅ | emperor geta

pairing: emperor geta x fem!reader

summary: the fates spin the thread of destiny, and mortals have no choice but to follow its path. you have other plans.

➺‘the fates, who give men at their birth both evil and good to have, and they pursue the transgressions of men and gods… until they punish the sinner with a sore penalty’ - theogony, hesiod ➺‘whatever happens to you has been waiting to happen since the beginning of time’ - marcus aurelius

A/N: i watched gladiator ii, devoured all the geta fics i could find (ty writers for feeding me <3) and i’m still ravenous. the man is gnawing at me from my insides so i had no choice but to get typing. haven’t written for like a yr so bear with me. if this flops it never happened xx

warnings: mention of miscarriage (not reader's), period-typical misogyny, morally ambiguous reader bc she’s fighting for her life out here. she’s just a girl fr :( YOU try being a girlie in ancient rome :/ enjoy !!

w/c: 5.9k

latin translations: fatum - fate, carissima - dear, domina - my lady

As the moon ascends in wake of the sun’s descent, the gilded walls of the imperial palace glint softly in the moonlight. Glorious tapestries line these walls, each one telling the tale of hallowed heroes, of terrible tyrants and of revered rulers. The history of the Roman Empire.

Their patterns, depicting stories of both rise and ruin, are woven by none other than the three Fates. One Fate spins the thread, and an heir is born. Another Fate weaves it, and a battle is won. The last Fate cuts, and an emperor meets his end.

As three pairs of hands work nimbly in the heavens, another tapestry begets itself in the mortal realm, where our story takes place.

From a tender age, you had been taught to believe in fate.

Fatum.

You had first learnt the word as a little one.

You’d been a curious creature, like most children are. Sheltered from the terrors of the world, your appetite for life was insatiable. You’d wake up with a hunger for new knowledge about the world around you, and go to bed still hungry for more, no matter what had transpired during the day. Thus, you found it impossible to go to sleep of your own accord - you relied on your mother’s bedtime stories to satisfy your appetite, and lull you into slumber.

Perched by your bedside with a gentle hand stroking your hair, she regaled you with the tale of Rome’s beginnings. A tale of abandonment, wolf-mothers and fratricide. Enough thrill to tire you out, she hoped. To her chagrin, she looked down to find widened eyes, without a trace of sleep in them, staring up at her expectantly. Instead, your eyes shone bright with the excitement of unanswered questions.

She sighed fondly before prompting you to talk. “Yes, carissima?”

And so the floodgates opened. You fired her with questions with all the sternness of a Roman general, and she listened intently with all the patience of a loving mother.

Why did the king try to kill the babies? Why didn’t the wolf eat the babies?

And finally, taking great care to be gentle, you placed a tiny hand on her rounded belly and asked the most burning question. Why did Romulus kill his brother? Your innocent mind struggled to comprehend it. You hadn’t even met your little sibling yet, and you already couldn’t fathom the idea of bringing harm to him. Or her, you thought, but your father had insisted that all refer to the babe as the male heir he so desperately desired it to be.

“Fatum,” was the simple answer she supplied. “Without the king’s cruelty, without the wolf’s mercy, without Remus’ death, our great city would never have been built.”

Eyes shining with knowledge yet untold, her gaze held yours. “Whatever happens to you, has been waiting to happen since the beginning of time,” she quoted, a tone of finality in her voice.

As well-loved children do, you’d lapped up your mother’s answer as readily as the twin babes lapped the wolf’s milk.

You had first witnessed fatum some years later, at the age of twelve.

On the brink of adolescence, much about you had changed compared to the little girl having bedtime stories told to her. Much except one. Age hadn’t quelled your curiosity - if anything, it had grown.

You’d exhausted all the resources available to a girl of your standing. You’d read enough philosophical texts to debate with Aristotle himself, asked questions faster than your tutors could find answers and yet, you knew there was much more that the world had to offer. So, you decided to take matters into your own hands.

With age had also come a newfound deviance. Observant as you were, you’d learned that there was much to be gained with certain types of information - if you knew how to use it to your advantage.

As such, you’d taken to eavesdropping on your father’s meetings with his fellow senators from behind a pillar. For weeks on end, they had spoken of a play becoming popular amongst patricians and plebeians alike. Oedipus.

At the centre of their discussion was a ploy to ban the play from being performed. Abhorrent, they had called it. A threat to their authority, if the people are led to believe that even kings are subject to a thing as fickle as fate. At that statement, your eyes twinkled with mischief and a devious smile found its way to your face - you were determined to see this for yourself.

So, on the fateful night you caught your older cousin in the arms of a man bearing no resemblance to her betrothed, you knew you’d struck gold.

Desperate to protect her reputation and far too embarrassed to berate you for sleuthing around when you should have been asleep, she’d hastily agreed to the terms of your silence. She would sneak you into the city’s amphitheatre to watch the next production of Oedipus, if you swore to secrecy.

And so your plan commenced. Hidden under the large folds of her toga, you observed the story unfolding before you. The mighty king of Thebes brought to his knees by the tragic fate he’d tried to escape, to no avail.

A real spectacle, the performance elicited emotions from you that were both old and new. In a short two hours you’d been perplexed, horrified, scandalised. You’d learned quickly why you had to be sneaked in - fate wasn’t the only mature theme you were educated on that night.

But you only came to understand fatum when it took the person dearest to you, two summers ago.

Pregnant again, the fifth time that you could remember, your mother had taken ill. Perilously ill. After years of unsuccessful attempts to produce an heir - one daughter, two miscarriages and two stillbirths - she had breathed her last. In her womb? The son your father demanded of her. The son he had longed for. Prayed to the gods for. What else could bring forth such a tragic end, if not the hands of the Fates?

Now a grown woman, the beliefs your mother had impressed upon you would soon be tested. Left with no living sons to continue his legacy and no living wife to bring forth such living sons, your father’s lofty political aspirations could only be fulfilled through his daughter. You.

Your father wasted no time in advancing his plans.

After a long day spent praying at the temple of Pluto, you had been ready to wind down and relax. A good distance away from the centre of the city and situated atop a number of hills, a trip there takes up the whole day. You had set out at dawn, and as the sun set over the Tiber river to bring forth dusk, your shadow darkened the entrance of your family villa.

Exhausted both emotionally and physically, your body went through the motions of preparing yourself for supper, but your mind remained absent - occupied with thoughts of what could have been and what will never be.

After your bath you called for your maid and allowed her to dress you, head still in the clouds. It was only when you caught a glimpse of yourself in the bronze mirror atop your vanity that you noticed something was amiss.

Your eyes squinted as you inspected the image reflected on the polished surface.

“Why have you dressed me in these garments? I wish to wear my usual attire.”

You wore a tunic, the draped garment secured by an ornate brooch resembling an owl, with eyes made of precious gems. Nothing out of the ordinary.

What was out of the ordinary, was the saffron yellow hue of the tunic — since your mother’s passing you had been in mourning and thus only wore dark colours. A fact well-known by your maid, who dressed you day and night.

The hands fastening the brooch faltered as she gathered a response.

“My apologies, Domina.” She stepped back, head bowed in deference. “I assumed you would revert to your previous wardrobe, seeing as yesterday marked the end of…” She trailed off meekly, allowing you to fill in the blanks.

The previous day had marked a year since your mother’s passing, and thus the end of the customary mourning period. As such, it would be socially acceptable for you to appear happy and content again, reflected in the abandonment of deep plums and drab greys for sunny yellows and bold blues. You supposed it was not odd for her to assume you desire to don brighter colours.

But upon closer inspection, your suspicion rose again. Detailed with beautiful patterns and made of the smoothest damask money could buy, the tunic was much too elaborate for a simple family dinner in the villa. The last time you wore it was to a relative’s wedding, where your father made a point of telling anyone who would listen just how much it had cost to import the material from China.

You poised yourself to question her further, but the words died on the tip of your tongue when you saw the pleading look she gave you.

“Please, Domina.”

She offered you no further explanation, but the fear in her eyes was explanation enough. She was not doing this of her own accord, but under instruction. And if you knew your father well, under strict instruction.

Whatever plans he had for you, you knew you would have little to no choice in the matter.

Wordlessly, you acquiesced and allowed her to continue. You did not protest when she brushed, braided and pinned your hair into an elaborate updo. You were compliant when she lined your eyes with kohl and blotted your lips with mulberry juice.

Primped and primed like a prized show horse, you dismissed your maid, sat by the window and awaited your fate.

Not long passed before the sound of a male timbre filled the room.

“It appears your outfit is missing something.”

You turned to the direction of the voice to see your father standing in the doorway. Instinctively, you stood to your feet - less as a show of respect and more because you were used to being on guard in his presence.

In his hands he held a translucent, gauzy material, sheer in nature and vibrant in colour, that was all too familiar to you.

Your mother’s favourite veil.

Usually fixed firmly atop her head during special occasions - festivals, birthdays, weddings and the like - you could recognise it from a mile away. Growing up, you had associated this veil with womanhood itself. You would traipse around the corridors of the villa with it wrapped around your head haphazardly, the excess fabric trailing behind you as you ran as fast as your little legs could carry you.

What a foreign sight it was to see it in the hands of your father. And what a foreign sight it was to see him in your chambers.

Following your mother’s passing, the two of you had not conversed beyond what was formally required of you, your already fragile relationship fracturing completely. Yet here he was, extending a peace offering. An olive branch.

Pleased as you were to receive it, you were not foolish enough to believe this to be a genuinely affectionate gesture. A politician through and through, your father was no stranger to symbolic gestures, and he had made no attempts to mend your relationship prior to this moment. This sudden generosity, paired with your extravagant dressing, could only mean one thing.

He wanted something from you.

Now, you had two options. Comply with his request, or comply with his request begrudgingly. You chose the latter, of course. Even if obedience was your only option, you weren’t going to make this easy for him.

You casted him a quick look of derision. “If you wish to barter for my forgiveness with a piece of cloth, I am afraid your efforts have been wasted.”

Unphased, he stepped further into the room.  “Now, now, peace, dear daughter. Let us be civil.” The faux humility in his tone was almost comical.

“Perhaps you feel…wronged by me for holding your mother to a certain standard. But, you must understand that I was simply fulfilling my duties, by encouraging her to fulfil her own. I have particular responsibilities to this family. As do you, now.”

You levelled him with an icy glare, wise enough not to express your discontent verbally, but too headstrong not to express it somehow.

“And even if I have, in some unfathomable way, wronged you; to err is human, to forgive, divine.” 

After knowing him for as long as you did, you knew this was the closest thing to an apology you would get. You also knew your father was a talented orator - it’s how he gained a large enough political following to join the Senate, after all. And so you prepared yourself to be subjected to one of his moving speeches.

“It is common knowledge that women are the weaker sex,” What a great way to start, you snarked to yourself. “Yet, I have always seen a unique strength in you. Not physical strength, of course, but a mental fortitude. Since you were a young girl you have been willful, stubborn,” he took a step closer to you with each word, purple-lined toga brushing the floor as he advanced. 

As he said the last word, he gave you a knowing look. “Nosy.”

You failed to hide your shock. “Oh yes, I saw you slinking around behind the pillars.” He waved a hand dismissively. “It matters not, now. In fact, whatever dregs of information you picked up from eavesdropping on my discussions may soon prove useful.”

His face was a picture of smugness, with an eyebrow cocked and the corners of his mouth upturned as if he knew something you didn’t. With just a few sentences he had complimented you (even if it was backhanded), revealed that he knew your secret, and teased you with a nugget of information. The perfect combination to make you anticipate his next words.

Silence filled the room as he kept you in suspense, mind whirring as you mulled over his cryptic words. 

One hand held your mother’s veil in front of him, while the other caressed its folds delicately. His eyes had a faraway look in them that suggested his mind had travelled to another time.

“Your mother was a strong woman. Not strong enough in the end, regrettably, but strong nonthele-”

“Don’t.” You interjected. “You will not sully her memory with your caustic words.”

His lips spread into a diplomatic smile, but the twitch of his eye betrayed the irritation he felt. Belligerent as he was, he ignored your outburst and continued. 

“Unlike her, you have the makings of a lady of great influence. Much like me, you have the mind for politics. That potential lies latent within you.”

With a gentleness you wished was also reflected in his words, he draped the veil over your head. “I advise you not to waste it, dear daughter, and suffer the fate of lesser women.”

You scoffed at his words, readjusting the veil so it rested perfectly atop your head and shoulders. “And how do you suggest I fulfil this…potential? The Senate is not exactly welcoming of women.”

Well-pleased that your interest had been piqued, he finally reveals his true intentions.

“Accompany me to the imperial banquet tonight. We will celebrate the successful conquest of Britannia.”

“I do not care for banquets, nor do I spare a thought for conquests.”

“You may not care for military conquests, but this banquet itself is a conquest of the political sort. In my experience, much more is won with words, than with swords. And tonight’s event presents an opportunity for much gain.”

Again with the cryptic words.

“Allow me to present you to the Emperors. Your face is comely enough to garner their attention, and for some reason unbeknownst to me, some men find opinionated girls like you to be charming.” 

Is he insinuating what you think he is?, you thought incredulously. Surely not.

“The Senate may not be the place for women, but the Senate is not the only facilitator of politics. Why not practice your politics from Palatine Hill?”

There was no mistaking it. He intended to make an Empress of you. Equally as curious as you were sceptical, you decided to test his logic.

“Beauty is fleeting. Charm wanes with time. How would I maintain their favour?”

“That, dear daughter, is up to you. I am certain you will find a way, formidable as you are.”

While it pained you to admit it, he was right. You and your father were more alike than different, what with your scheming and blackmailing. Besides, you were formidable. You were cunning. You were capable.

There may be greater things in store for you yet.

And those greater things began with this banquet.

Upon arrival, you were met with the most magnificent sight you had ever seen. Sat proudly upon Palatine Hill, the palace looked like the image your mind conjured when picturing Olympus. After ascending the intimidating number of steps that led to the entrance, you truly felt like you’d ascended to the land of the gods. Wherever you looked there was amazing artwork that instilled equal parts awe and fear in you. 

Look up, and there were grand arches to behold. Look to the side, and the spectacular frescoes offered a feast for the eyes. Look down, and there were beautifully designed floor mosaics you almost felt bad for stepping on.

As you passed through into the atrium, it was much the same. Ostentatiously decorated, it boasted gilded walls and glorious tapestries, each feature a testament to the Emperors’ opulence, and Rome’s riches.

But it was impossible to focus fully on the artwork with the room heaving as it was. Eyes darting from one person to another with every passing second,  you were captivated by the spectacle the hoard of partygoers presented. Something seemed to be happening in every square foot of the room, each guest having their fill of whatever their vice of choice was for the night. Wine was in abundance, giving way to loose lips, and scantily-clad whores prowled about in the shadows, giving way to loose purse strings.

You had been to your fair share of lavish affairs, but this was a whole new world of revelry.

Between the loud percussion of the musicians’ instruments, the aroma of the heavily seasoned foods and the leering gazes of overexcited men, you began to feel overstimulated. You stuck close to your father as he led you into the heart of the throng, finding comfort in the familiar when surrounded by the foreign. Better the devil you know.

Oblivious to your discomfort, he reprimands you under his breath. “Stop clinging to me like a child, lest our venture fail before it has even begun.”

You’d been so taken by your surroundings that you hadn’t registered where your father was leading you to. Now you stood in front of the two men at the centre of this affair, who were seated majestically upon a golden threaded couch. You prayed you didn’t look like the bewildered little girl you certainly felt like. 

With a grand, sweeping gesture of his hand, your father bowed. 

“Imperators, what an honour it is to partake in these…wondrous celebrations with your Majesties.”

“Senator,” one of them said, voice smooth like honey but with an edge that demanded caution. His face bore a smile, but his tone was calm and measured. “What a pleasure it is to see you.” The twitch of his eyebrow suggested otherwise. “In a more agreeable mood, might I add.” The man beside him sniggers.

More agreeable? Whatever could that mean? For the second time in one night you found yourself deciphering cryptic words. Father must have angered the Emperors, somehow. 

“And you’ve brought…” He trailed off, looking at your father expectantly.

“Yes, Emperor Geta, Emperor Caracalla,” with a single clap and an officious clearing of his throat he stepped to the side, no longer obscuring their vision of you. “May I present my daughter…”

You managed to regain your composure, exhibiting a grace only a lady of the upper echelons of society could possess when you sunk into a deep curtsy. Lifting your gaze, you were met with the hair-raising sensation of being observed. Not just observed – scrutinised.  

A pair of eyes, deep brown like rich soil, trailed over your form. The man that addressed your father with contempt - Geta. His brows furrowed as he took the sight of you in. Lined with kohl much like yours, his eyes were smouldering in their examination.

Another pair, red-rimmed and cloudy with the haze of inebriation, were the perfect contrast. The man that sniggered - Caracalla. With irises of a cold blue hue, they would have been intimidating if they belonged to a face other than his, what with his rosy rounded cheeks and seemingly perpetual impish grin. 

Despite their differences, the relation between the men was clear as day. Flaming locks of hair and the gold laurels that circled their heads confirmed their identities. These were the infamous twin tyrants.

But it wasn’t just the weight of their eyes that you felt. Lounging around the couch in various positions and in varying states of undress, was an entourage of courtesans. You did your best to avert your gaze, as theirs bore into you. 

And what a pleasant sight you were. Adorned with ornate jewellery and clad in the finest of silks, you were easily one of the best dressed at the banquet. Before a word had been uttered, your appearance relayed a message – you were a lady of fine stature, more than accustomed to luxury and thus, would be well-suited to palace life.

Well-suited to be Empress.

Not taking any chances, your father decided not to leave anything up for interpretation.

He began listing your virtues as if reading from a handbook - 100 Things to Look For in a Roman Wife. He spoke of your piety, your beauty, your fertility. With every trait of yours that was mentioned, you grew increasingly more irate and keeping the docile smile on your face became increasingly more difficult. 

“...and lest I forget, she is most gifted with the lyre-”

“How quaint.” Caracalla interrupted, a peal of childish laughter bubbling from his lips. “He presents his daughter’s hand as if he is lobbying for a law to be passed!”

Geta scoffed, “Or a conquest to be forfeited.”

At this, Caracalla doubled over in laughter, the overfilled cup of wine in his hand threatening to spill over the rim with every jostle of his frame. Clearly there’s a joke you’re missing here.

There’s a wicked glint in Geta’s eyes that tells you this joke has guile. 

“Three sennights have lapsed since you last stood before us, spewing nonsense about abandoning our pursuit of Britannica.” The vitriol that coated his voice strung a discordant note in the mellifluous tune of his brother’s continuous laughter. “Yet here you stand in your Emperors’ palace,” he gestured at the ongoing frivolities. “Drinking and making merry with spoils from the very war you so vehemently opposed.” 

Ah. It finally clicked. From what you had picked up from your father and his associates’ discussions, you knew that this conquest had long since been under contention among the Senators. The campaign was taking longer than anticipated, and required more reinforcements than expected. The Roman force was fatigued. At home, the starving plebeians of Rome were one famine away from revolting, and without the full support of the army, politicians relied on empty promises to appease their constituents and maintain order. Yet, the Emperors were adamant on expanding Rome’s borders.

For whatever reason, at the last Senate meeting three weeks ago your father had been the unfortunate soul to suggest that the troops should draw back. And now he stood before them at the celebration of the successful conquest, presenting you as a bargaining chip to secure his pardon. Opposing the Emperors was costly, and he decided you were going to pay that price on his behalf.

Geta leaned his head on his hands as he asked, “Tell me, Senator, what makes you think you will triumph this time?”

You watched your father’s reaction with bitter disbelief. For the first time in your life, your silver-tongued father, the man that had landed you this fate, floundered for words.

Fine. If this was the hand dealt to you, so be it. But you were going to do this your way.

“Your Majesties,” At the sound of your sweet voice, Geta’s gaze affixed itself to your face. Instantly, he was beguiled. “If I may…” 

With the slow incline of his head, you were permitted to speak. 

“I know little of war,” you feigned ignorance. “But I do know that defying the odds to bring glory to Rome is no small feat.” Preening at your praise, Geta leaned forward in his seat, a silent encouragement for you to continue. “Rome and her citizens are fortunate to be led by you, Imperators, and I am grateful to be in the presence of such wise rulers.”

His mouth spread into a self-satisfied smirk. “I bask in your praises, my lady. It pleases me to see that someone in your family has a semblance of loyalty to the powers above them” A pointed look was shot at your father. “You see, all those that oppose their Emperors,” His venomous gaze roved over the group of Senators shifting uneasily as they watched this ordeal. “Will soon learn that there is only one way for a man to wield power.” He held up his index finger for emphasis and paused for suspense. “War.”

With all the self-assurance of a man that has never truly been challenged, he stalked towards you.

“What other power can bring a man to his knees and cause him to surrender?”

“I can think of nothing greater than war!” Caracalla piped up from behind him.

“Yes, brother.” Geta held his cup of wine up in agreement. “By no other means can a man wield such power. I am sure my lady agrees?” He offered his right hand, each finger as bejewelled as the next.

The ultimatum he presented you with was clear. Kiss the ring, let all be forgiven and allow this encounter to end pleasantly. Refuse the ring, and…well, don’t refuse the ring.

But compliance was predictable, and would only get you so far. Your beauty and charm had ignited a spark of interest in him, but that wasn’t enough. You needed that spark to burst into a flame.

With swan-like grace you knelt before him and took his hand, smiling inwardly when his eyes followed your descent with rapture. You didn’t miss his quick intake of breath when you halted your movements to look up and meet his eye, lips an inch away from the stunning signet ring.

“Upon second thought,” You tilted your head as if considering his words. “There exists another power great enough to make a man kneel in surrender.” At your bold words, the hand you held tightened around your fingers until he had a firm grip of your hand. “A power so great, even Emperors are not immune.”

Gasps of shock came from the onlookers sober enough to process what they had heard.

“Impertinence!” Caracalla’s cry of protest tore you from the captivity of his brother’s gaze. 

“Forgive my daughter, she oversteps her bounds.” Your father spat the words out and fixed you with a look of warning, a late and unappreciated attempt to de-escalate the night’s proceedings.

With a wave of Geta’s hand, his words were dismissed. For the sake of keeping your resolve, you pretended not to see the Praetorians return their drawn swords to their scabbards.

You returned to the intense stare of brown eyes narrowed in… intrigue? Suspicion? You weren’t sure, but you had his attention. 

“And what power would that be?”

Your gentle smile had him entranced. “The strike of a drum, the strum of a lyre’s strings. Music, my Imperator, holds much power.”

See, while your father was busy waxing lyrical about you, you had been studying Geta closely. As he listened to others speak, his fingers unconsciously tapped the thigh of the courtesan perched on the arm of the couch. But they were not tapping any old rhythm – they tapped to the beat of the percussion in the background.

The ring your lips had puckered up to kiss was not embossed with an imprint of Mars, the god of war, but Apollo, god of music. Geta the Emperor championed conflict and violence, but Geta the man held music dear.

Rich eyes twinkled as his laugh rang in your ears. “Ah, yes. Your father mentioned your skill with the lyre. He failed to mention your humour.” He didn’t believe you.

“I assure you, Imperator, my lyre-playing is unparalleled.” You indulged him with a coy smile.

“You believe you would best our most talented musician? That your playing would put your Emperors’ finest to shame?” He challenged your claim.

“Given the chance, I would outplay each of the Nine Muses,” you asserted boldly. You rose to his challenge.

His eyes gleamed with ardour as he regarded your statement with a raised brow. “I await the day I hear you play with baited breath, my lady.”

“It would be my pleasure, my liege.”

Not risking any more excitement, you curtsied and took your father’s arm as he guided you towards the outskirts of the atrium, and away from watching eyes. He wasted no time expressing his displeasure.

“Have you lost your senses, girl? Has some strange plague come over your mind?!” He released an exasperated sigh. “You should have held that tongue of yours.”

 “Oh, and left you there, stammering like a bumbling fool? Father,” you uttered the paternal term without an ounce of familial affection. “You entrusted this ploy into my hands, so leave it there.”

Anger flashed across his face like a clap of thunder. Before he could berate you for your indolence, however, a piercing shriek stole the moment.

You pushed through the crowd to see the commotion, weaving past bodies stilled with shock at whatever it is they were witnessing. When you got to the centre, you were met with a most harrowing display of fraternal discord.

Geta lay sprawled out on the marble floor, the corded muscle of his limbs tensing as he strained to hold back the man towering over him, wielding a dagger above his head. Caracalla. 

At first glance one may have supposed this fray was borne of anger, but with the spittle flying out of gritted teeth that gnashed and snarled like those of some inhuman beast, the incoherent stream of words and the crazed look in his eyes, it was clear that he did not have full agency of his person.

The rumours were true. He was having one of his infamous episodes.

Your eyes darted from Praetorian to Praetorian, waiting for one of them, any of them to take action. Their hands rested on the hilt of their swords, hesitation rooting them to their spots. To raise a hand against Caracalla would be treason, punishable by death. To ignore the distress of Geta would be treason, also punishable by death. They were at an impasse.

The chatter of mingling guests and the ambience of the musicians’ instruments had long since stopped, leaving the grunts of the brothers to take their place. All watched on in stunned silence, revelers turned horrified spectators.

Their scrambling continued. Geta managed to hook a leg around Caracalla’s ankle, toppling him over to join him on the cold marble. Wine cups clanged as they were knocked to the ground, collateral. The cacophony of sound nearly masked the sound of Geta’s desperate plea.

“Break the spell! Break the spell!”

Moved by an impetus you couldn’t explain, you barreled further through the crowd until you reached the musicians’ corner. You grabbed the lyre from the hands of the bard (who was too focused on the ongoing tumult to protest), and started strumming the tune of a nursery rhyme favoured by Roman children both rich and poor. 

Dulcet tones and sweet symphonies echoed through the chamber as you sang of Rome’s rolling hills, of fair maidens awaiting the return of brave soldiers, of the Tiber River’s ebb and flow.

Those around you listened intently, enraptured. They stepped aside, clearing a path for you towards the quarreling brothers. You walked forward as you sang, and as you reached the last verse you stood a few feet away from where they squirmed, limbs akimbo. 

From your position you saw the exact moment the muscles in Caracalla’s face relaxed, and his body went limp. He released a weak whimper better-suited to an injured animal than the tyrannical emperor he was rumoured to be.

Eyes fixed on you over his brother’s shoulder, he dropped the dagger as if compelled. Tears began to run down his face as he wailed, balling himself up into a foetal position. When they noticed his change in disposition, his entourage took the chance to spirit him away from the room. 

The final note of your song rang out. A beat passed as everyone came to, as if they too were held captive in a trance. Then, a slow, steady clap from one became a roaring applause, your fellow guests lauding your performance as if it had been planned. 

Chest heaving from exertion, Geta used a three-legged (formerly four-legged) stool to pull himself from the floor and adjusted his toga. At the raise of his hand, the clapping stopped. Flopping back to sit on the couch, he gestured for you to come forward. His expression was inscrutable. 

Before you could scrape together an apology, or some sort of explanation, you were utterly disarmed by the grin that spread across his face. 

“My lady,” He huffed between words, still catching his breath. “I stand corrected. It appears your flair with the lyre is equally as bewitching as your looks.”  

Your cheeks heated up at his confession of attraction towards you. “It pleases me that you think of me so, my Emperor.”

“Mmm.” He hummed, dark eyes taking their time to appraise you. “The power to bring a man to his knees can be very dangerous, you know. I believe it would be in the best interest of Rome and her citizens if such power was… managed by the capable hands of their Emperor.”

The chill of deja vu ran down your spine when he extended his hand in your direction. A second invitation to kiss the ring. Most people only get one.

“Wouldn’t you agree?”

As your lips made contact with the cold metal of Apollo’s face and you sealed your fate, you closed your eyes and said a silent prayer. When you opened them again, you found eyes the colour of rich soil searching yours. 

He turned the hand that gripped his and pressed a surprisingly sweet kiss to the back of it. His kisses travelled up your arm, growing more and more fervent, the plush of his lips leaving warmth on every spot they pressed against. He used his hold on you to pull you towards him until you were close enough to smell the heady scent of patchouli mixed with the subtle musk of perspiration, and count the freckles on his speckled cheeks, peeking through the layer of makeup. 

His palm ran up and down your arm repeatedly, inching further up each time.

“You will make a home for yourself here, in these palace walls.” Brown eyes gazed into yours, full of a veneration you couldn’t fathom. “And you shall be my little Muse.” 

As if the troubles of your life thus far had not been a sufficient allotment of suffering, the Fates had now tasked you with weathering the twin tempers of the Emperors Geta and Caracalla. And surviving.

Gods help you.

A/N: thank you ever so much for reading ! i'm working on part two so let me know if you want me to post it when it's done <3

likes, comments and reblogs are appreciated x

© onyxstyx tumblr 2025

GLADIATOR II MASTERLIST

Hello! My name is Kandi and I am an aspiring author. In this masterlist you can find all my works for this series linked under their respective characters. I write for the characters listed but I will make some exceptions if requested. Thank you and happy reading!

EMPEROR GETA

-coming soon!

EMPEROR CARACALLA

-coming soon!

LUCIUS

-coming soon!

GENERAL ACACIUS

-coming soon!

This masterlist along with my others will be updated any time a new fic is dropped or in the process of being worked on.

An Unwanted Marriage (Marcus Acacius x Female OC)

CAST

Pedro Pascal as General Marcus Acacius

Anna Popplewell as Lady Cassandra "Casey" Acacius neé Gracchus

Derek Jacobi as Senator Gaius Sempronius Gracchus

Joseph Quinn as Emperor Publis Septimus Geta

Fred Hechiner as Emperor Caracalla

Connie Nielsen as Lucilla

Rest of the cast as themselves

An Unwanted Marriage (Marcus Acacius x Female OC)

Chapter 1: The Birth of Cassandra Gracchus

Summary: General Marcus Acacias, misled by lies about his shy, bookish wife, treats their arranged marriage with cold disdain. Despite her quiet efforts to connect, his harshness drives her to retreat. When he uncovers the truth about her father’s deception, Marcus must confront his guilt and choose between repairing their bond or letting pride destroy it. A/N: This is just a modified version of the full summary which is available to read on the Masterlist

Warning(s): Mentions of childbirth and death

Series Masterlist

Main Masterlist

Ao3

"It is not death that a man should fear, but he should fear never beginning to live." – Marcus Aurelius

The grand estate of Senator Gracchus had been bustling with excitement in the days leading up to the birth of his first child. The news had spread quickly across Rome—the senator’s wife was going to bring a new life into the world, a child that would be celebrated as a symbol of his legacy. Yet, that celebration would never come.

Inside the birthing room, all was chaos.

“Doctor! Help her!” Senator Gracchus’ voice thundered, panic thick in his words. His normally composed demeanor had shattered, replaced by frantic energy as he paced beside his wife’s bed.

Antonia, his wife, had been in labor for hours. Her cries of pain echoed through the marble halls, but something was wrong. The doctors, gathered around the bed, exchanged nervous glances. They had hoped for a smooth delivery, but now they feared the worst.

“Push, madam! Push!” one of the doctors commanded, his hands steady but his voice strained. He tried to reassure her, but it was clear that time was running out.

Antonia, drenched in sweat, gripped the sides of the bed, her face contorted in agony. “I can’t… it hurts…” she gasped.

Senator Gracchus, normally unshaken, now loomed over her, his face tight with worry. His fists were clenched, his entire body vibrating with fear as he leaned in close to her ear.

“You must, Antonia. For the child. Please.”

The room held its breath as she pushed once more. There was a sickening pause.

The baby emerged into the world, lifeless.

The silence in the room was suffocating. No cry. No sound of life.

“Why isn’t she crying?” Gracchus shouted, his voice rising in terror. He turned to the doctors, his voice barely controlled. “Why isn’t she crying?!”

The lead doctor immediately moved toward the baby, his hands deftly performing chest compressions, trying desperately to coax the infant to breathe. “Come on, little one,” he muttered, his voice a soft prayer, “please.”

The tension in the room felt unbearable, every second stretching into eternity. Senator Gracchus could barely look at the scene before him. His wife, pale and trembling, lay motionless, blood staining the sheets beneath her. Her chest rose and fell weakly, but she wasn’t responding.

“Doctor, what’s happening to her?!” Gracchus demanded, his voice breaking. His heart was in his throat.

The doctor did not answer immediately, his hands working quickly. Then, finally, he looked up with grim realization. “Senator, there’s too much blood loss. Her heart is failing.”

“No!” Gracchus cried out, stepping closer to his wife’s side. “No, please, you can’t take her from me now! She can’t die. She just can’t!”

But Antonia’s blood continued to flow, a river that would not stop. The room became a blur of movement, the sounds of the doctor’s desperate instructions to the others blending with Gracchus’ frantic cries.

Then, just as hope seemed to slip away, a small sound broke through the tension—the tiniest of breaths from the newborn. The baby gasped for air, and then another, a soft cry.

The doctor stopped his compressions, his eyes wide in surprise. “She’s alive… the child is alive!” he said, relief flooding his voice.

Gracchus, shaking with emotion, looked down at the newborn in the doctor’s arms. She was so small, her fragile cries filling the room with life. He had forgotten to breathe for a moment, his body tense with the mix of relief and horror.

But his wife, Antonia, did not stir. Her hand, once warm, was now cold. Her lips were ashen. Gracchus turned to her again, his voice catching in his throat. “Antonia? Please… don’t leave me.”

It was too late.

The child was alive, but her mother… her mother was gone. The room fell into a stunned, sorrowful silence. Gracchus stood there, paralyzed by grief, as the newborn was gently placed into his arms.

The babe, still fragile, let out another tiny wail, but all Gracchus could do was stare down at her, his heart shattered in two. This child, this little girl, was his heir—but she was also a reminder of everything lost in that moment.

A mother was gone, and with her, a piece of his soul.

“She’s Cassandra,” Gracchus whispered, his voice hoarse with the weight of sorrow. “Cassandra Gracchus.”

As the hours passed, the estate that had been prepared for celebration now stood in mourning. A birth that should have been the beginning of something bright had instead marked a tragic end.

And as Gracchus looked down at his daughter’s innocent face, his heart hardened into something cold. He would raise this child, but she would never fill the emptiness his wife left behind. She would be a symbol of loss, a reminder of the cost of life.

In that moment, as he gazed into the eyes of the newborn, Gracchus swore that he would never allow her to forget the price she had paid for her existence.

Just went to see Gladiator II. I need to write for this man immediately.

God he looks so... Pathetic, almost. Insane, but pathetic. I need him. I need him to whimper. But I want to brush his hair, too. The possiblities....

*. 🪷𓂃.

A Geta x Fem!Dancer Fic

A/N: Just a funny idea that came to me when my eyeliner got caught in my contact lenses. Lol! I was just like, it'd be kind of hilarious if this happened to Geta 😆 Might add another chapter or two!

Word Count: 3.9k

Tags & Warnings: period-typical sexism | Brotherly banter, bored emperors, squabbling senators, lulling dances, intense eye contact

Summary: A senator presents a pair of dancers to the emperors, seeking their decision on which of them should feature in the upcoming Festival of Floralia. As Geta observes the more exotic of the two, he suddenly finds himself in a state of tears.

━━━━━━━༻❀*̥˚༺━━━━━━━

Eyeliner Problems

Tap tap tap tap…

Geta rubbed a hand over his eyes tiredly before they shifted sharply at his brother, who was sitting beside him and incessantly tapping his rings against the gold filigree of his seat.

Typically it would not bother him this much, but the lavish party they had enjoyed the night before had run well into the early hours of the morning and Geta had, unfortunately, entirely forgotten about the meeting the Senate had called for.

He blinked and sat up straighter, lowering his hand and attempting to focus on what was being said.

Something about funding. More funding for the coming Festival of Floralia — complete with games and performances. It was always an appealingly licentious event, though also considerably expensive.

Caracalla yawned loudly and Geta dug his nails into his palm as he watched the older men argue amongst themselves. They would argue and try to problem solve before coming up with some solution or another and turn to him for approval. He just had to wait for them to finally get there.

He rolled his neck, the tension and the soreness easing only slightly, and he sighed under his breath. He then reached for his goblet of wine, taking a long sip before sitting forward in his seat, blinking his eyes again and focusing on the words he was hearing.

“-we bring in more foreign dancers, not less! That will incite the crowd and prove a better investment in the long run.”

“It’s a waste of money. The dancers we have will suit just fine.”

“You have to keep things novel. Different. The people will grow bored of the same thing.”

I grow bored… Geta thought morosely.

Around and around they went. He bit down on his teeth, setting his goblet down with a soft clank and running a hand over his mouth. Just get on with it already, I beg you.

“Let us see those dancers fight one another to the death! A brawl!” Caracalla sat up suddenly and bellowed. “The prize?! A night with their emperors!”

Geta sent him a sidelong glance of disapproval before he slid his attention back to the senators. The impression he tried to make of being somewhat professional was always circumvented by these sorts of outbursts. He wanted the senators to take them seriously, but some days it was like an uphill battle.

“Imagine!” His twin continued. “They-”

“Calla…” Geta muttered under his breath, eyes intent on the looks that were cast in their direction.

At this point, most of the older men were used to some level of outrageous remark, and they looked to Geta, as if looking for permission to disregard it. Geta gave a small nod, relieved that they were not overly concerned, though he couldn’t imagine what they might be thinking.

Incompetent, maybe? Ridiculous? He shuddered to consider it.

He gave his heavily-lined eyes a roll before running a hand across his forehead. The more this dragged on, the more restless Caracalla would become, and the more likely future such declarations would be.

He might next suggest to throw the senators themselves into the arena! …which admittedly wasn’t such a terrible thing to imagine.

“Let us compare! We have two dance side by side, one local and one more exotic, and you tell me which of them is more exciting!”

“You intend to bring a pair of women in here?” The other asked, outraged. “That is unacceptable, even to prove a point.”

At least the heat had been taken off of Caracalla, Geta noted.

“Outside then.”

“You’re inconveniencing everyone!”

The other man opened his mouth to retort before Geta breathed in and firmly brought a hand down on the arm of his chair. He stood, voice resonant and firm. “Outside it is! Come, let us see these dancers and resolve the matter.”

The eyes of the senators turned to him in surprise, unused to his interrupting their deliberations before his final decision was called upon.

But he had had more than enough of this for today. Without sparing them another glance, he led the way out of the stuffy room, Caracalla cackling behind him as he moved lazily to follow.

They crossed out toward a balcony before descending a set of stairs to a courtyard. Geta took a seat on one of the benches, Caracalla moving toward one parallel, where he languidly lounged.

Geta lifted a hand once the senators had filtered into the yard with looks of trepidation.

“Let’s get on with it then,” the emperor declared.

The initiator of this entire ordeal summoned one of his servants over. “Bring the girls. Quickly now!”

“You were prepared for this, I see.” The naysayer crossed his arms and shook his head.

Geta leaned forward as he waited, hands clasped together, the bracelets on his wrists glinting in the bright light that filtered down from above them. He ran his thumbs together, rings gliding against each other in a soft clank of metal.

Caracalla tugged on the broad leaf of the plant beside his own bench, tearing it free before proceeding to slowly tear it to shreds.

There was a tense silence across the space, during which there was only the mutters from the senators and the breeze swaying through the trees overhead.

Reflections from the golden laurels upon Geta’s head and the extravagant chain around his neck reflected onto his marble skin, casting upon it strange, warping shapes of light and shadow.

He watched the morphing movements a moment before the soft sound of footsteps echoed upon the paved walkway. A glance upward revealed the returned servant, two women on either side, and a trio of musicians behind them.

Senator Acisculus had certainly been prepared. He probably wanted to capitalize on his investment in exotic entertainment, for which he was beginning to make something of a name for himself. It was a self-interested move, of course, but Geta was inclined to appreciate the ambition of it.

His more reserved opposition, Ectorius, stood by crossly with his arms folded. Geta had a feeling that there wasn’t much of anything that could convince him. His mind was already made up. But perhaps the majority would be swayed and Geta could vote in favor of what they expressed a greater want for. He hoped it would be a decisive thing and that he would not have to continue to bear their grievances.

“My Lords,” Acisculus bowed and cast them a beaming smile before extending a hand toward the pair of women. “I present today’s exhibition. Whichever you find most delights you will be at the forefront of our performances at Floralia’s festival!”

Caracalla clapped loudly, sitting up slightly now that something was about to happen. Geta simply nodded for the man to proceed.

A stronger gust of wind swept over them, warm and fragrant with the scent of orange blossoms. The dust was stirred and Geta reached over with a slight frown to remove the particles that had settled over the exquisite ivory and gold-accented sleeve of the garment he wore.

“I will prevent our Roman dancer first,” the senator motioned for the first woman to step forward.

She complied, gliding forward as her sheer, lavender stola fluttered in the breeze. Geta tilted his head, eyes mildly inspecting. He thought he’d seen her at a few of their performances. She was someone obviously practiced and her expression seemed to further convey that fact.

The musicians began a classic beat and the woman moved rhythmically, her movements solid and vaguely provocative.

Geta glanced at Ectorius, who was nodding approvingly and whispering words to the other senators nearby, no doubt securing their votes in favor of this one. The emperor then flicked his eyes toward his twin, who had barely spared the woman glance,having gone back to his destruction of the nearby plants. He cast down the petals of a flower, yawning widely.

A solid performance, yet certainly without much novelty. Entertaining enough, but hardly exciting.

When she had finished her dance, a racous wave of applause sounded from Ectorius and the senators nearby. Geta lifted his hands and offered her a bit of unenthusiastic applause as well.

The woman bowed her head, golden hair falling in waves as she did.

“Thank you, Marcella.” Acisculus motioned her aside before calling the other forward.

Geta adjusted his stance expectantly. This was the one which the man had been promoting. The one whom he seemed quite convinced would draw the crowds.

Let’s see if you’re up to the task, he thought, hoping for some level of exhilaration.

“One of my most treasured finds,” Acisculus declared with a wide grin. “A rare find from somewhere within the mysterious orient. Discovered by happenstance within the ports of Egypt.”

The woman removed the veil she had been wearing — for dramatic effect, Geta supposed — and revealed a set of features he hadn’t quite seen on anyone before. Her dark eyes had a slant to them, her cheekbones high and well-defined. There was a slender, delicate quality to her figure and features, and her black hair looked as smooth and sleek as silk.

His mouth twitched upward, something bordering on desire rising in his gaze as he held her gentle stare.

“Is this what they’re hiding out in the far east?” Caracalla interjected, sitting forward too. “You don’t look like you’re capable of much, but the softer, sweeter dispositions can be surprising, can’t they, brother?”

Geta shot him a look, bristling a little at the obvious interest his brother had in her too. He gave the senator a nod though, urging him to begin.

Acisculus motioned for the musicians and they struck up a surprisingly slow rhythm, before the woman began to move her hands in strange, flowing motions. Her movements were equally slow, with graceful turns of her body and shifts in posture, as if she were nothing but a wisp of wind.

Geta blinked, waiting for the dance to take a shift. To reach some sort of climax, but it continued its lulling serenade. He sighed as his posture slumped, somewhat disappointed. Though it was an artful display, there was nothing particularly enticing about it. It was as reserved-looking as the woman herself.

This was what Acisculus believed would draw the crowd?

Caracalla chuckled. “What is she doing? Mimicking a sea at rest?”

Another shaft of wind swept over the courtyard, shifting the dust and sweeping over them. Geta blinked as a bit of it struck his eyes and he lifted a hand to wipe at them before a harsher sting had him turning his head to blink fiercely.

He waited it to pass as his eyes watered, but it only grew worse. A glance down at his hand revealed a smear of the kohl he’d used to line his eyes and he reasoned it was the reason for this uncomfortable stabbing sensation.

A mess of it I’ve made, surely, he thought in frustration as he gritted his teeth.

He blinked a few more times before attempting to shift his focus back to where the woman still danced, that dreadful breeze fluttering over her gown and sending her feather-light hair flowing across her face. She gave even further impression at being in oneness with the air.

But the vision of her obscured again, watering and distorting and Geta glanced down, cursing under his breath as he breathed harshly.

“Emperor?” He heard Acisculus ask. “Are you well?”

Geta lifted a hand to wave him off before lifting the other to cover his eyes.

There was a moment before Caracalla seemed to notice his state. He gave a sharp laugh before leaning toward him. “What has gotten into you, brother? Are you actually crying?”

“Of course not!” He lowered his hand in aggravation before wincing again. "Oh- He breathed in shakily, body trembling with it. “By the gods…”

“Is it the dancing? Does it move you so?” Caracalla asked, still amused. “How flushed you are!”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Geta mumbled, voice thick before he tilted back his head and took several long breaths, warmth leaking furiously from his eyes and streaking down his face.

“Well well!” Caracalla announced. “It seems we have our answer, senators! This dancer has moved by brother to tears. We simply must have her as this festival’s lead!”

Geta shook his head. “Wait-” he breathed out, blinked, widened his eyes, then directed his focus back to the group before him. All of the senators were staring at him in stunned silence, surprise visible on their faces. They seemed unsure of what to make of what had just happened.

Senator Acisculus, though, was smiling behind a pair of clasped hands.

“As lovely as your dancer is,” Geta’s eyes flicked toward the woman. “I don’t think-”

“Bring her here! Let us get a good look at her!” His twin interrupted loudly.

Acisculus bowed his head enthusiastically before urging the woman to step toward the pair of emperors. Geta found it interesting that these men chose to unquestionably heed Caracalla’s orders when it actually suited them.

The corners of Geta’s mouth pulled down in dissatisfaction before he shifted his attention to the foreign woman as she drew forward. Her eyes were held low, hands clasped together meekly.

Really, how was any of this meant to be exciting? He sighed, left eye still stinging in a way that seemed to radiate across that whole side of his face. He blinked at her as she slowly lifted her gaze, the movement measured as she shifted her attention first to Caracalla, who had ordered her forward, before settling it on Geta.

He stared back at her somewhat impartially as he lifted a hand and brought it over his eye, leaning forward to rest his elbow on his knee. There, at least the tears were held back. The pressure helped with the jabbing sensation too.

Something unreadable passed through her dark, exotic eyes, before she pressed her lips tighter thoughtfully, glanced to her feet, and then met his stare again.

Geta tilted his head, faintly curious what it was that had passed beneath the stoic expression she wore before she opened her mouth and spoke, the sound of her voice as wispy and delicate as everything else about her — her appearance, her movements, the robe she wore — everything, he noticed, except for her eyes, which held a surprising weight. It made him wonder what was churning beneath the veneer of gentleness she wore.

“If I may…” she said in strangely accented, unpracticed Latin before motioning toward herself and then at him. “Would you let me help?”

Geta’s brows creased in confusion at her meaning and she was quick to explain by way of indicating her own eye.

“Help?” Caracalla asked as Geta breathed in and gave the woman a dubious look. “What’d you mean help?”

“Will you allow me to come forward?” She asked again, glancing between he and his brother. “I will assist with what afflicts you.”

She bent her head in another respectful bow before fixing her unwavering gaze on him again.

The emperor deliberated another moment before lifting a hand and beckoning her forward.

The woman neared him with an unhurried gait and Geta slowly straightened in his seat, eyeing her approach intently.

She stopped and stood over him, unreadable things within the dark depths that stared back as he inclined his head up to her. The woman offered a fraction of a smile before she slowly reached for his hand, soft fingertips grazing his skin, her expression careful and continuing to ask for his approval. Geta replied with a small nod before her fragile hand fully gripped his, prying it away from his eye.

His gaze fell to her hold, to the way her slender fingers encircled his palm. Her skin was so thin he could see the network of veins in her wrist and he could see the movements of things beneath her skin as she settled his hand onto his lap. As she gently released him, he again noticed those streaks of kohl on the pale skin of his hand and tried not to consider how unsightly the state of his face must be.

Geta felt a brush against his forehead and his eyes were drawn back up to hers. She smoothed his hair aside and leaned in closer, the fragrance of jasmine pulsing from her tall neck as her soft, warmth breaths feathered against his cheek.

“Open your eye,” she directed airily. “And look up.”

Geta released a tense breath before fluttering his eye open, wincing at the sting before he tilted his head back and looked above her, up to the towering tree overhead, where the leaves swayed against the dappled sunlight. The sight blurred as the sting returned and the woman rested one hand upon his shoulder to steady herself before bringing the other over his eye. Her fingers hovered there, ghosting against his eyelashes as she leaned in to inspect him.

“Hold still.”

Geta complied before flinching as she brushed a finger directly against his eye. It was one swift, precise move and then she was easing back.

“Is that any better?”

He straightened his head and blinked his eyes a few times before slowly nodding, noting in relief that the jabbing was gone. He sniffed and lifted a hand to swipe more of the condensation away. “What was it?”

As answer, she lifted her index finger, revealing the small lash there.

“Ah,” Geta replied as he glanced to it with both brows raised. “I see. That explains it.”

He lifted his hands then, running them along both eyes to try and remove the smudged lines of kohl.

“Whoa!” Caracalla rose from him seat, clapping his hands. "Well done! Surgical precision that was." He cackled. “I guess I spoke too soon. It seems my brother wasn’t moved to tears at all. Was only a little lash that plagued him.”

Geta shot him a swift glare as he continued trying to make his appearance presentable. How he wished for a mirror! He glanced at the woman still standing before him and then leaned toward her. “Have I missed any?” He lifted a hand to indicate the dark lines smeared there.

She glanced once between his hand and his face before stepping forward again with a small shake of her head and bringing a finger to the corner of one of his eyes, where she firmly pressed it against the crease there. She tilted her head in assessment before humming beneath her breath and stepping back again.

Geta felt a trace of warmth from where she’d touched him and his stare fixed on her again. He gave a purposeful nod. “I thank you for your assistance.” His mouth lifted into a crooked smile as he leaned forward again. “What is your name?”

“Akemi,” she answered simply and with another bow of her head as her hands clasped together in front of her.

“Akemi…” He repeated, smile inching higher. “And where are you from? Before Egypt, I mean.”

Another miniscule smile from her and a soft hum, indicating she already knew what he was asking. “A small island far in the east. Oyashima, we call it.”

“Hm…” He replied, glancing at the senators surrounding them. They all continued to watch their exchange as if not quite sure what to make of it. “I have not heard of it.”

“We are a small nation.” She supplied.

He breathed out a laugh. Yes, one of those insignifanct places in the furthest reaches of the map. Hardly worth glancing at.

And yet, he thought as his eyes drifted back to her. I am all the same curious about this place. What mysteries might such a seemingly unassuming place as that be hiding? As unthreatening as this woman herself was. Unthreatening, yet carrying such profound things within.

“Perhaps I will ask you sometime,” he tilted his head, beaming at his own suggestion that they two would be awarded another moment with one another. How would she respond to that? “Just how it was you came to Egyptian shores. And how you were discovered by Senator Acisculus here.” He gauged her reaction closely, eyes sparking with something roguish.

She stared at him in silence, eyes still frustratingly unreadable, before she slowly nodded. “If that is something you wish to discuss, I would be happy to oblige.”

A reserved answer, but Geta felt somewhat victorious all the same. He ran his eyes over her again, watching the way the wind danced over her, as if she might be taken up and carried away with it. Carried back to whatever mysterious island she’d come from. His eyes then flicked to Acisculus, who stood by with a recognizable, excited gleam.

“So?” The senator asked. “Will you feature her at the festival?”

Geta glanced between him and Akemi, considering again. The dance…that lulling dance. He’d nearly disregarded it. But perhaps there was something to be said for allowing oneself to be slowly drawn in. A little patience and a closer look and there was something exciting to be found there.

“Yes,” he answered, eyes burning as he stared at the woman. “She will be featured.”

The man clapped loudly, there were protests from those who’d been opposed, but the only thing the emperor could focus on was the way the slender woman’s little smile tilted the corner of her mouth higher, something burning back at him.

He tilted his head then, eyes narrowing slightly. Had she anticipated this? Was there something ambitious hiding behind that mask? Perhaps it should have angered him, the thought that she might have subtly manipulated him into featuring her, but it had been more of an advantageous maneuver, hadn’t it? After all, it was not as if she had thrown first that dust, then the kohl, then finally the lash into his eyes. She’d recognized a need for assistance and provided it, as she should. A thing which had proven mutually beneficial to them both.

And why should they not get on one another’s good side? There was much more which could be gained.

No, Geta did not mind. It merely added to that hidden gravitas she held. Ambition, when not a threat, was an attractive quality.

“Let us have that conversation sometime soon, hm?” he said as he rose from his seat and approached her. He brought a hand beneath Akemi’s chin, lifting her head to gaze upon it fully. “And perhaps we might also discuss more of these featured performances in the future.”

A spark again. Flashing through her eyes. Geta smirked down at her. I see you, he thought as he smoothed his thumb across her chin once before releasing her.

There was another silent moment between them, his eyes flicking over each of her features in turn, analyzing and admiring them before he finally turned. “Come, brother.” He announced. “Let us make ourselves presentable for the races this afternoon.”

“Make yourself presentable, you mean!” Caracalla moved to follow. “I was not the one reduced to a weeping mess at the sight of such a delicate woman.”

“That was not the way of it.”

“Oh really? What is your name?” Caracalla mocked as their voices followed their exit, the courtyard falling behind them. "Where are you from?  Let us talk sometime."

“Enough.” Geta snapped before they both disappeared from view, Akemi’s dark eyes lingering on the spot they had vacated.

A victorious feeling surged through her as strongly as it had the emperor, before she glanced to her hand, where lines of the kohl he’d worn had also marked her skin.

A symbol of the success she’d claimed.

🔸Even in Arcadia *. 🪷𓂃. Dedication to Emperor Geta {+ Caracalla}

Geta & Caracalla | Napoleon Dynamite Parody ✨ૢ·̩͙ "See what happens if you try and hit me."

"Why are you the way that you are?" Geta vs. Acacius - The Office parody .𓂃🩵✨ૢ·̩͙